The nation has gone betting mad, writes Hunter Davies, and he wants none of it

Is it a bird, is it a plane? No, it's a barrage balloon. Or am I dreaming of wartime, I thought, remembering when, as little boy, I was sent to stay with my grandparents in Glasgow, where I spent many a happy evening in the shelter at the bottom of the garden watching the skies light up as the Jerries dropped their bombs, the anti-aircraft guns boomed and the barrage balloons floated menacingly across the sky.

I wonder now why my parents sent me, aged four, from the peace and quiet of wartime Carlisle to the Glasgow Blitz. Life, what a mystery it is.

Then I looked up and saw that, on the side of the barrage balloon floating above White Hart Lane, it read: "Sky Bet". Bastards. I hate all betting. Shouldn't be allowed. This government has no morals or principles. If it works, if they can get away with it, if they can tax it, that's all that matters. I've never placed a bet; don't know how. The only time I bought a Lottery ticket was on 19 November 1994 - day one of the National Lottery draw. I wanted it as memorabilia. Not to win money, certainly not. I was brought up Scottish Presbyterian.

The nation is now betting mad. All classes, all incomes are throwing their money away. Even the Guardian has been carrying an ad offering a free £25 bet to all readers. (To new customers staking £10. There's always a catch.)

I shout at the TV when messages flash across the screen giving you the odds on the next goal being scored by whoever. And I scream at those words: "Sky Bet - it matters more when there's money on it." Of course it bloody does. So does putting money on two raindrops running down a window pane.

Obviously, if you or your family were to win a lot of money, then you would be all for it. Last week, in the pool at LA Fitness, I was talking to the Times columnist and novelist Giles Coren. Is it true that your sister Victoria won £500,000 playing poker? I asked him between lengths. I took my earplugs out, the better to hear the answer. "Yes," he replied. "I learned the news on the internet, so I rushed at once to the casino where she was playing. She was buying champagne for everyone. 'Remember me,' I said, pushing in. 'It's me, your brother . . .'"

I suppose as far as football is concerned we have to be grateful. At least four clubs are now being sponsored by some sort of betting or poker firm. The players and the stadium at White Hart Lane are now plastered with the word Mansion, which I always thought was a polish. Then there's 888 at Boro, 32Red at Aston Villa and Bet24 at Blackburn. There may be more, but I haven't been able to work out the stupid figures.

Betting in football has a long history - and not only betting by the players. In the Athletic Journal of 1887, a prize of two guineas was offered to all readers guessing the correct scores on three games. All the mags were soon at it. By 1911, the Umpire was offering £300 to anyone correctly predicting six scores. It led to the first match-fixing scandals in football, with players accused of taking bribes. In 1920, cash betting on football was banned.

But then the football Pools were created, a brilliantly clever wheeze whereby, technically, the betting was done on credit, not cash, because you paid up the week after the games. In the 1930s, more people were betting on the Pools than were going to games. The Pools industry was employing 30,000, mostly women. Littlewoods was taking in millions every week and flying aeroplanes over London with streamers attached saying "Littlewoods above all". Yup, there's nothing new . . .

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